


The Sound Of Drums

by Somnaborium



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 20:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11494029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somnaborium/pseuds/Somnaborium
Summary: Brontide - a low muffled sound like distant thunder.





	The Sound Of Drums

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Dragon Age or its characters!  
> I’m just playing with them for a bit – I’ll put them back, mostly unharmed.  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> I have taken some creative liberties with the dialogue from Corypheus here as this chapter takes place after Adamant but some of the dialogue is from the end game.  
> So, spoilers, obviously.  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say hi to me on [Tumblr!"](https://somnaborium.tumblr.com/)

_"You think that pain will make you stronger? What fool filled your mind with such drivel? The only one who grows stronger from your fears is me."_  
  
A giggle, part humorous and part crazed bubbled up, forcing its way past wine stained and cracked lips.  
  
_"You have been most successful in foiling my plans but let us not forget what you are."_  
  
A goblet, delicate crystal and beautifully etched crashed against a wall, the shattering oddly loud against the sound of drums rolling across the sky outside; the last few droplets of honey wine splashing over the wall and floor and settling like liquid amber amongst glittering glass shards.  
Green eyes flashed furiously as Trevelyan paced the room; breath coming in short pants, fists clenched at her sides.  
  
_"A thief in the wrong place at the wrong time. An interloper. A gnat."_  
  
She glanced down at her hand, the mark glinting dangerously, taunting her. She hated it, but more so she hated herself for believing in the notion that she could possibly be some fabled Herald; that a random noble, a girl plucked from the Circle and a life of relative obscurity could possibly be the leader that everyone thought she was.  
  
She is no Inquisitor, she chastises herself as she catches sight of her reflection in the ornate mirror on her dressing table.  
She looks wild and crazed, hair messy and in need of brushing; eyes too bright and sunken, her face almost deathly pale except the angry flush high on her cheeks.  
She is too thin having not eaten for several days since the events at Adamant Fortress; but food and simple care have been far from her mind of late.  
  
People knock at her door and she ignores it, the silence worrying her advisers and the nobles that have gathered in the main hall of the keep who gossip mercilessly about the Inquisitor; murmurings of replacing her have caught Lelianas’ ears and she makes sure to subtly evict the ones responsible.  
But it is a hard task and one that gets more difficult with each passing day that Trevelyan locks herself away.  
  
Oh, they hear noises from her quarters, oh yes - the sound of glass shattering, the creak and groan of furniture being toppled and broken and the unmistakable sound of muffled screams and sobs.  
It sounds as though she does not rest at all.  
  
On the sixth day, Blackwall gives up trying to talk to her through the locked door, lands a hefty kick just under the lock until it groans under the force, splinters and finally opens.  
  
He is unprepared for the sight that greets him.  
  
Her room is dark, the drapes drawn tightly closed and only one candle flickers on the small table by her bed like an insistent beacon guiding him to her huddled form on the floor.  
Her desk has been overturned, a large crack in the rich wood where it appears she has tried to break it in half; mercifully her attempt was not successful; the chair however has not fared as well and large chunks of the delicately carved wood are tossed about with broken glass shards, books and papers like flotsam on the shore of the Storm Coast.  
  
He steps closer to Trevelyan and finds her icy cold and trembling, half-asleep and curled in on herself, breathing in-out-in far too quickly.  
Being careful to not startle her, Blackwall scoops her up and places her in bed - thanking the Maker that it is one of the only pieces of furniture she hasn’t managed to break in some way.  
He covers her with as many blankets as he could see and notes that she is fully asleep now, muttering nonsensical words; breath still too fast and too harsh and he wonders how long it has been since she had any proper rest and what manner of nightmare haunts her so badly.  
He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, taking the chance to ghost his fingertips over her cheek.  
  
Blackwall moves about the room, lighting the fire first to ward of the worst of the chill and then lighting more candles. He works methodically, righting furniture and gathering items that cannot be salvaged, setting them aside to be trashed later and finally places the more important looking papers and letters on her desk.  
  
Once the room is back to rights, he strips to his soft breeches and loose shirt and settles on the bed next to her; wrapping his arms around her and pulling her gently to his chest.  


* * *

She awakens with a sharp intake of breath, scrabbling at nothing as she bolts into a sitting position; eyes staring wildly into the darkness of the room.  
  
Struggling up and out of bed, she wonders when she lit the fire and her heart thuds hammer-hard in her chest as a bulky figure rises up behind her, hands reaching for her and grasping at her body.  
The touch is gentle, but it rubs at her skin in the wrong way; it prickles and burns like she's been in the sun for too long and she yanks herself away from the touch with a wild sounding whimper.  
She scrambles backwards, hands up and out in a gesture that screams “stop” - is she saying that aloud or in her head, it seems so loud and guttural - retreating backwards until her back hits the wall and she slides down the wall; hands covering her face as she lets out a choked scream.  
  
Blackwall slowly steps towards her, unsure of the protocol to follow when the woman you love; the woman who held the fate of the entire world in her hands, was so clearly distressed to the point of breaking.  
Carefully he gets to his knees in front of her, taking her slender wrists in his hands; gently prising her fingers away from her face; tilting her chin up until her eyes met his, dulled, watery and bloodshot - a world away from the sparkling, vibrant colour he knew.  
  
“My lady,” he whispered, “please, talk to me.”  
  
Her head shakes violently from side to side, lips pressed tight together and eyes squeezed shut; tiny cold hands pushing against the solid wall of his chest as though pushing him from her and shutting him out would make everything go away.  
  
“Everyone is worried for you,” he continued softly, talking to her as one would a frightened child; “ _I_ am worried for you. Please, just tell me what to do. What can I do to make this better?”  
  
She huffed a bitter laugh; colder than the wind howling around Skyhold and when she looked at him again her eyes were flint-hard, her mouth twisted in a cruel mockery of a smile.  
She held her hand out, the mark flashing dangerously; splitting her skin grotesquely, it’s tainted glow spilling into the dimly lit room.  
  
“You think you can make this better?” She forced the words out of her mouth, her throat dry as the leaves that were covering the grounds outside.  
  
Blackwall sat back on his heels and eyed the mark warily, snapping his mouth shut when she held up her other hand to silence him.  
  
“Nothing can make this better,” she continued; “do you know what I am, Captain Rainier?”  
  
He flinched at the use of his real name, their relationship still on shaky ground since his revelation and judgement.  
  
“You are the Herald, my lady, the leader of our Inquisition,” as soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew it was the wrong thing to say - the cruel twist to her mouth became something much worse; a triumphant and awful smile.  
  
“Oh, yes,” Trevelyan laughed, a cold, dead sound that prickled along his skin and made the hairs on his neck stand on end; “the fabled Herald of Andraste; the fearless Inquisitor, the one who will save Thedas in the Makers’ name. No, Captain, I am none of those things. I am a mistake, a thing created in error. I have never been the fabled Herald I am praised for being.”  
  
She stood abruptly, near knocking Blackwall back; stumbling over to the dressing table and staring at her reflection.  
  
For a fraction of a second, the air becomes charged with something electric, like the calm before the storm hits and somewhere Blackwall swears he can hear the sound of drums growing louder and closer; the sound of a terrible army come to assault the world.  
Just like that, the charge in the air fizzles out, crackling against his skin leaving gooseflesh in it’s wake and the sound of glass breaking drags Blackwall’s attention back to the room to see Trevelyan’s hand recoiling from the mirror, it’s surface marred with spiraling cracks.  
  
“Makers balls, Trev,” Blackwall muttered, “what the fuck is happening?”  
  
Trevelyan pulls her arm back, going for another blow; the back of her hand already split and bleeding and Blackwall takes the room in one large stride to grab her fist.  
She snarls, feral and dark, twisting in his grip and Blackwall takes her other arm, hauling her to her feet and doing the first thing that comes to his mind to shock her out of her current state:  
  
He near enough slams her against the wall near her balcony doors, pressing his body to hers - she is cold, still so damn cold - and captures her mouth with his, pouring everything he has into a heated kiss.  
She is unresponsive at first, struggling against the bulky frame of him and it is all he can do to not groan when her hips shift and catch him in just the right way; instead he changes his grip on her, clamping one large hand around both wrists and tugging them above her head as his free hand tangles in her hair and tilts her head so he can deepen the kiss.  
  
Blackwall is lost to the kiss and the feel of her lithe body pressed so gloriously tight against his; her hips shifting restlessly against his and those perfectly wicked, breathy little sounds coming from her lips that when they part and she looks at him with wild eyes and kiss-swollen lips, looking so unbelievably wanton; the last fraying strands of his resolve snap and he all but growls into her neck, letting go of her wrists and tugging her legs around his hips.  
Her breath hitches as he drags her away from the wall and they topple onto her bed, her hands already clutching handfuls of his shirt; tugging it up and over his head; her hands sliding over his skin.  
He chuckles, following her actions and divesting her of the oversized shirt she wears to sleep in; calloused fingers ghosting across her bare breasts as he does, lips tracing her jaw and neck; nipping here and there, leaving tiny marks that he knows she won’t bother covering - something that he relishes knowing.  
Trevelyan rolls her hips impatiently, her hands tangling in his hair to pull his head down; her lips crushing his in a bruising kiss that leaves them both breathless and his hands move tug her smalls off, throwing them to the floor before standing and shucking off the rest of his clothing.  
  
He quirks an eyebrow at her as he moves back over her; he is hard against her thigh and she shivers at the feel of it and then shudders with a gasp as his fingers find her wet and wanting.  
  
“Maker…” He mutters, lips nuzzling at her breasts, leaving more marks that stand crimson against her pale skin.  
  
“Thom…” she breathes his name and oh, Maker it’s the single most wonderful thing he’s ever heard; his name tumbling from her lips, rich with desire and thick with need; “Thom _please_ …”  
  
And that’s all he needs to let go of those final strands of resolve - two words formed on a breathy sigh.  
Sliding his hands under her back, he covers her body with his and in one move he enters her; a delicious press and slide and she feels like heated silk closing around him, her legs wrapped around his waist and her teeth nipping sharply at his neck.  
  
His hands slide from her back to her waist, fingers squeezing the curve of it before moving down and pressing into her hips so hard he knows she will bruise later; the thought of her porcelain skin marred with more of his marks spurring him to hold harder, push harder and faster because he doesn’t know how to be gentle right now; and she’s chanting something - his name or a prayer or maybe both - he doesn’t care what as her body trembles under his.  
  
Her hands move over his back, blunted nails scoring at his skin and leaving blazing trails that feel like fire in their wake; he arches as she clenches around him with a low cry, her magic spilling from her fingers, tiny arcs of lightning flickering from hand to hand, as uncontrolled as her sudden release; which hits her so fiercely she is left gasping and shaking underneath him.  
  
Still shaking, she moves under him and urges him closer to his own release with slow and sinuous rolls of her hips and Maker help him but she looks like sin in it’s purest form - hair spilling back over the pillows, skin flushed and eyes wide and dark with lust - and he tells her so as he presses kisses to her mouth before burying his face in her neck and growling out his climax in broken syllables.  
  
Once he feels as though his limbs are in his own control, Blackwall moves to lay on his side next to Trevelyan; one hand idly stroking her stomach and hip. She smiles and it’s heartbreaking to see it - small and nowhere near as bright and beaming as usual, but there nonetheless and beautiful in it’s rarity.  
  
She slids out of bed and padded slowly to her balcony; tugging open the heavy drapes and flinging the door wide; before returning to her warm bed and the man within; who tilts his head in silent question.  
  
Trevelyan does not answer, beyond a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before slipping under the blankets and motioning for him to do the same; wriggling closer to him when he slides one arm around her waist.  
  
“I do love you, my lady,” he murmurs, lips brushing against her ear.  
  
Again, she does not answer and he thinks her asleep until he feels her cheek rising in a smile as outside in the distance came the thunder; a herald of the storm in the distant sound of drums.


End file.
